For a moment he hesitated, savouring the moment, then centred the metal spike and pushed. His first thrust took her by surprise. He felt her whole body stiffen in shock, but though she gasped, she did not cry out.
Brave girl, he thought, but that’s not what you’re here for. You’re not here to be brave. You’re here to sing for me.
The second thrust tore her. He felt the skin between her anus and vagina give like tissue and heard her cry out in agony.
‘Good,’ he said, laughing brutally. ‘That’s good. Sing out, Si Wu Ya! It’s good to hear you sing out!’
He thrust again.
When he was done he unstrapped himself, then took one of the white sheets from the side and threw it over her, watching as the blood spread out from the centre of the white; a doubled circle of redness that slowly formed into an ellipse.
Hearing her moan, he went round and knelt beside her, lifting her face gently, almost tenderly, and kissing her brow, her nose, her lips.
‘Was that good, Si Wu Ya? Was it hard enough for you?’ He laughed softly, almost lovingly. ‘Ah, but you were good, Si Wu Ya. The best yet. And for that you’ll have your tape. But later, neh? In the morning. We’ve a whole night ahead of us. Plenty of time to play our game again.’
Sung was kneeling on the top of the dyke, staring across at the House as the dawn broke. He was cold to the bone and his clothes were wet through, but still he knelt there, waiting.
He had heard her cries in the night. Had heard and felt his heart break inside his chest. Had dropped his head, knowing, at last, how small he was, how powerless.
Now, as the light leached back into the world, he saw the door open at the head of the steps and a figure appear.
‘Si Wu Ya…’ he mouthed, his lips dry, his heart, which had seemed dead in him, pounding in his chest. He went to get up but his legs were numb from kneeling and he had to put his hand out to stop himself from tumbling into the water far below. But his eyes never left her distant, shadowed figure, seeing at once how slowly she moved, how awkwardly, hobbling down the steps one by one, stopping time and again to rest, her whole body crooked, one hand clutching the side rail tightly, as if she’d fall without it.
He dragged himself back, anxious now, and began to pound the life back into his legs. Once more he tried to stand and fell back, cursing, almost whimpering now in his fear for her. ‘Si Wu Ya,’ he moaned, ‘Si Wu Ya.’
Once more he tried to stand, gritting his teeth, willing his muscles to obey him. For one moment he almost fell again, then he thrust one leg forward, finding his balance.
‘Si Wu Ya…’ he hissed.
Forcing his useless legs to work, he made his way to the bridge, awkwardly at first, hobbling, as if in some grotesque mimicry of his wife, then with more confidence as the blood began to flow, his muscles come alive again.
Then, suddenly, he was running, his arms flailing wildly, his bare feet thudding against the dark earth. Until he was standing there, before her, great waves of pain and fear, hurt and anger washing through him like a huge black tide.
He moaned, his voice an animal cry of pain. ‘What did he do, Si Wu Ya? Gods save us, what did he do?’
She stared back at him almost sightlessly.
‘Your face…’ he began, then realized that her face was unmarked. The darkness was behind her eyes. The sight of it made him whimper like a child and fall to his knees again.
Slowly, each movement a vast, unexplored continent of pain, she pushed out from the steps and hobbled past him. He scrambled up and made to help her but she brushed him off, saying nothing, letting the cold emptiness of her face speak for her.
On the narrow bridge he stood in front of her again, blocking her way, looking back past her at the House.
‘I’ll kill him.’
For the first time she seemed to look at him. Then she laughed; her laughter so cold, so unlike the laughter he had known from her, that it made his flesh tingle with fear.
‘He’d break you, little Sung. He’d eat you up and spit you out.’
She leaned to one side and spat. Blood. He could see it, even in this half light. She had spat blood.
He went to touch her, to put his hands on her shoulders, but the look in her eyes warned him off. He let his arms fall uselessly.
‘What did he do, Si Wu Ya? Tell me what he did.’
She looked down, then began to move on, forcing him to move aside and let her pass. He had no will to stop her.
At the first of the smaller channels she turned and began to ease herself down the shallow bank, grunting, her face set against the pain she was causing herself. Sung, following her, held out his hand and for the first time she let him help her, gripping his hand with a force that took his breath, her fingers tightening convulsively with every little jolt she received.
Then she let go and straightened up, standing there knee deep in the water at the bottom of the unlit channel, the first light lain like a white cloth over the latticework of the surrounding fields, picking out the channel’s lips, the crouching shape of Sung. The same clear light that rested in the woman’s long dark hair like a faintly jewelled mist.
She looked up at him. ‘Have you your torch, Sung?’
He nodded, not understanding why she should want it, but took it from his pocket and, edging down the bank, reached out and handed it to her, watching as she unscrewed the top, transforming it into a tiny cutting tool. Then she took something from the pocket of her one-piece. Something small enough to fold inside her palm.
The card. The tape that had the record of his theft. Sung swallowed and looked at her. So she had done it. Had saved them both. He shivered, wanting to go down to her, to stroke her and hold her and thank her, but what he wanted wasn’t somehow right. He felt the coldness emanate from her, a sense of the vast distance she had travelled. It was as if she had been beyond the sky. Had been to the place where they said there was no air, only the frozen, winking nothingness of space. She had been there. He had seen it in her eyes.
She put the card against the bank and played the cutting beam upon it. Once, twice, three times she did it, each time picking up the card and examining it. But each time it emerged unscathed, unmarked.
She looked up at him, that same cold distance in her eyes, then let the card fall from her fingers into the silt below the water. Yes, he thought, they’ll not find it there. They could search a thousand years and they’d not find it.
But she had forgotten about the card already. She was bent down now, unbuttoning the lower half of her one-piece, her fingers moving gingerly, as if what she touched were flesh not cloth.
‘Come down,’ she said coldly, not looking at him. ‘You want to know what he did, don’t you? Well, come and see. I’ll show you what he did.’
He went down and stood there, facing her, the water cold against his shins, the darkness all around them. He could see that the flap of cloth gaped open, but in the dark could make out no more than the vague shape of her legs, her stomach.
‘Here.’ She handed him the two parts of the torch and waited for him to piece the thing together.
He made to shine the torch into her face, but she pushed his hand down. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not there. Down here, where the darkness is.’
He let her guide his hand, then tried to pull back as he saw what he had previously not noticed, but she held his hand there firmly, forcing him to look. Blood. The cloth was caked with her blood. Was stained almost black with it.
‘Gods…’ he whispered, then caught his breath as the light moved across onto her flesh.
She had been torn open. From her navel to the base of her spine she had been ripped apart. And then sewn up. Crudely, it seemed, for the stitches were uneven. The black threads glistened in the torchlight, blood seeping from the wound where she had opened it again by walking.
‘There,’ she said, pushing the torch away. ‘Now you’ve seen.’
He stood there blankly, not knowing what to say or do, remembering only t
he sound of her crying out in the darkness and how awful he had felt, alone, kneeling there on the dyke, impotent to act.
‘What now?’
But she did not answer him, only bent and lowered herself into the water, hissing as the coldness burned into the wound, a faint moan escaping through her gritted teeth as she began to wash.
At dawn on the morning of his official birthday – in the court annals his thirteenth, for they accorded with ancient Han tradition in calling the day of the child’s birth its first ‘birth day’ – Li Yuan was woken by his father and, when he was dressed in the proper clothes, led down to the stables of the Tongjiang estate.
It was an informal ceremony. Even so, there was not one of the six hundred and forty-eight servants – man, woman or girl – who was not present. Neither had any of the guests – themselves numbering one hundred and eighty – absented themselves on this occasion.
The grounds surrounding the stable buildings had been meticulously swept and tidied, the grooms lined up, heads bowed, before the great double doors. And there, framed in the open left-hand doorway of the stalls, was the T’ang’s birthday gift to his son.
It was an Andalusian; a beauty of a horse, sixteen hands high and a perfect mulberry in colour. It was a thick-necked, elegant beast, with the strong legs of a thoroughbred. It had been saddled up ready for him and as Li Yuan stood there, it turned its head curiously, its large dark eyes meeting the prince’s as if it knew its new owner.
‘You have ridden my horses for too long now,’ Li Shai Tung said to his son quietly. ‘I felt it was time you had your own.’
Li Yuan went across to it and reached up gently, stroking its neck, its dappled flank. Then he turned and bowed to his father, a fleeting smile on his lips. The chief groom stood close by, the halter in his hand, ready to offer it to the prince when he was ready. But when Li Yuan finally turned to him it was not to take the halter from him.
‘Saddle up the Arab, Hung Feng-Chan.’
The chief groom stared back at him a moment, open-mouthed, then looked across at the T’ang as if to query the instruction. But Li Shai Tung stood there motionless, his expression unchanged. Seeing this, Hung Feng-Chan bowed deeply to his T’ang, then to the prince, and quickly handed the halter to one of the nearby grooms.
When he had gone, Li Yuan turned back to his father, smiling, one hand still resting on the Andalusian’s smooth, strong neck.
‘He’s beautiful, father, and I’m delighted with your gift. But if I am to have a horse it must be Han Ch’in’s. I must become my brother.’
Throughout the watching crowd there was a low murmur of surprise, but from the T’ang himself there was no word, only the slightest narrowing of the eyes, a faint movement of the mouth. Otherwise he was perfectly still, watching his son.
The chief groom returned a minute later, leading the Arab. The black horse sniffed the air, and made a small bowing movement of its head, as if in greeting to the other horse. Then, just when it seemed to have settled, it made a sharp sideways movement, tugging against the halter. Hung Feng-Chan quieted the horse, patting its neck and whispering to it, then brought it across to where Li Yuan was standing.
This was the horse that General Tolonen had bought Han for his seventeenth birthday; the horse Han Ch’in had ridden daily until his death. A dark, spirited beast; dark-skinned and dark-natured, her eyes full of fire. She was smaller than the Andalusian by a hand, yet her grace, her power were undeniable.
‘Well, father?’
All eyes were on the T’ang. Li Shai Tung stood there, bare-headed, a bright blue quilted jacket pulled loosely about his shoulders against the morning’s freshness, one foot slightly before the other, his arms crossed across his chest, his hands holding his shoulders. It was a familiar stance to those who knew him, as was the smile he now gave his son; a dark, ironic smile that seemed both amused and calculating.
‘You must ride her first, Li Yuan.’
Li Yuan held his father’s eyes a moment, bowing, then he turned and, without further hesitation, swung up into the saddle. So far so good. The Arab barely had time to think before Li Yuan had leant forward and, looping the reins quickly over his hands, squeezed the Arab’s chest gently with both feet.
Li Yuan’s look of surprise as the Arab reared brought gasps as well as laughter from all round. Only the T’ang remained still and silent. Hung Feng-Chan danced round the front of the horse, trying to grab the halter, but Li Yuan shouted at him angrily and would have waved him away were he not clinging on dearly with both hands.
The Arab pulled and tugged and danced, moving this way and that, bucking, then skittering forward and ducking its head, trying to throw the rider from its back. But Li Yuan held on, his teeth gritted, his face determined. And slowly, very slowly, the Arab’s movements calmed. With difficulty Li Yuan brought the Arab’s head round and moved the stubborn beast two paces closer to the watching T’ang.
‘Well, father, is she mine?’
The T’ang’s left hand went from his shoulder to his beard. Then he laughed; a warm, good-humoured laugh that found its echo all around.
‘Yes, Li Yuan. In name, at least. But watch her. Even your brother found her difficult.’
They met by accident, several hours later, in one of the bright, high-ceilinged corridors leading to the gardens.
‘Li Yuan.’
Fei Yen bowed deeply, the two maids on either side of her copying her automatically.
The young prince had showered and changed since she had last seen him. He wore red now, the colour of the summer, his ma k’ua, the waist-length ceremonial jacket, a brilliant carmine, his loose silk trousers poppy, his suede boots a delicate shade of rose. About his waist he wore an elegant ta lien, or girdle pouch, the border a thick band of russet, the twin heart-shaped pockets made of a soft peach cloth, the details of trees, butterflies and flowers picked out in emerald green and blue and gold. On his head he wore a Ming-style summer hat, its inverted bowl lined with red fur and capped with a single ruby. Three long peacock feathers hung from its tip, reminder that Li Yuan was a royal prince.
‘Fei Yen…’ It might only have been the light reflected from his costume, yet once again he seemed embarrassed by her presence. ‘I… was coming to see you.’
She stayed as she was, looking up at him from beneath her long black lashes, allowing herself the faintest smile of pleasure.
‘I am honoured, Li Yuan.’
Fei Yen had dressed quite simply, in a peach ch’i p’ao, over which she wore a long embroidered cloak of white silk, decorated with stylized bamboo leaves of blue and green and edged in a soft pink brocade that matched the tiny pink ribbons in her hair, setting the whole thing off quite perfectly.
She knew how beautiful she looked. From childhood she had known her power over men. But this was strange, disturbing. It was almost as if this boy, this child…
Fei Yen rose slowly, meeting the prince’s eyes for the first time and seeing how quickly he re-directed his gaze. Perhaps it was just embarrassment – the memory of how he had shamed himself that time when she had comforted him. Men were such strange, proud creatures. It was odd what mattered to them. Like Han Ch’in that time, when she had almost bettered him at archery…
Li Yuan found his tongue again. But he could only glance at her briefly as he complimented her.
‘May her name be preserved on bamboo and silk.’
She laughed prettily at that, recognizing the old saying and pleased by his allusion to her cloak. ‘Why, thank you, Li Yuan. May the fifteen precious things be yours.’
It was said before she fully realized what she had wished for him. She heard her maids giggle behind her and saw Li Yuan look down, the flush returning to his cheeks. It was a traditional good-luck wish, for long life and prosperity. But it was also a wish that the recipient have sons.
Her own laughter dispelled the awkwardness of the moment. She saw Li Yuan look up at her, his dark eyes strangely bright, and was reminded momentarily of Han Ch�
�in. As Han had been, so Li Yuan was now. One day he would be Head of his family – a powerful man, almost a god. She was conscious of that as he stood there, watching her. Already, they said, he had the wisdom of an old man, a sage. Yet that brief reminder of her murdered husband saddened her. It brought back the long months of bitterness and loneliness she had suffered, shut away on her father’s estate.
Li Yuan must have seen something in her face, for what he said next seemed almost to read her thoughts.
‘You were alone too long, Fei Yen.’
It sounded so formal, so old-mannish, that she laughed. He frowned at her, not understanding.
‘I mean it,’ he said, his face earnest. ‘It isn’t healthy for a young woman to be locked away with old maids and virgins.’
His candidness, and the apparent maturity it revealed, surprised and amused her. She had to remind herself again of his precocity. He was only twelve. Despite this she was tempted to flirt with him. It was her natural inclination, long held in check, and, after a moment’s hesitation, she indulged it.
‘I’m gratified to find you so concerned for my welfare, Li Yuan. You think I should have been living life to the full, then, and not mourning your brother?’
She saw immediately that she had said the wrong thing. She had misread his comment. His face closed to her and he turned away, suddenly cold, distant. It troubled her and she crossed the space between them, touching his shoulder. ‘I didn’t mean…’
She stood there a moment, suddenly aware of how still he was. Her hand lay gently on his shoulder, barely pressing against him, yet it seemed he was gathered there at the point of contact, his whole self focused in her touch. It bemused her. What was this?
Ice and Fire: Chung Kuo Series Page 11